The Untold Horrors of Living with Sherlock Holmes
by Rosepoison
Summary: Between the cries of "Sherlock, eat something" and "John, put that test tube down, its filled with nitro", life at 221B Baker Street is far from average. It's a miracle John can put up with it. Of course, sometimes he doesn't . . . Friendship, however stressed. Rated over K for safety, might jump around arches a bit.
1. Of Crusty Hearts and Bored Detectives

Sherlock Holmes is a very . . . interesting human being to live with . . . ack, forget the deplomacy, that man is darn right _impossible, _plain and simple. Cooking for him (if you can call it that) is a piece of cake (pun intended.) Just give him a cup of tea—pineapple when bored, chai or green on a case—and the detective will be "good" for a week.

Other than that, life with Sherlock usually settles between a cold war and ground zero. Somewhere under that crusty exterior, bargain-bin coat, and shabby scarf, lay an even crustier _interior. _But, (although thick with gunk of the past and slow with the rust of misuse) Sherlock Holmes had a heart . . . though it has yet to rear its (albeit sleepy) head.

. . .

These are the things that swim through John Watson's head as makes a quick escape to the surgery. Quite honestly, he was in a panic that morning.

Sherlock was bored.

"Alright, I've got all the firearms stashed away in a safe with so many locks attacked it'd take even _that _smart Alec a month to open it . . . Gave all the poison to Mrs. Hudson, and told her to put that _idiot _under 24 hour guard until I get back home. . . Please, God in heaven, let me have a home to get back to, _just this once."_ John mumbles to himself wildly while his cabby shrugs his shoulders, knowing better than to get involved.

. . .

John practically flies home, hoping against hope all the way. He's relieved to find at least Baker Street is standing, though he shudders at his next task.

It was now time to see if room 221B, and Sherlock, were still in one piece. (Alright, so Sherlock being alive wasn't on his top priority list. Just so long as he had something to kick if most of their flat was burnt to a cinder.)

. . .

Everything's perfect. Too good to be true, actually. Sherlock's just lying on the couch, resembling something of a dejected puppy, but doing nothing potentially destructive. It's incredible . . . literally. The docter doesn't buy this, and starts snooping around the house, trying to see if his detective friend made an atom bomb while he was away.

. . .

John eventually spots a small puddle of water on the floor, and his eyes travel to the kitchen table.

A small caliber pistol rests atop it, looking rather innocent.

"You didn't . . ." John trails off, walking along the trail of water. It ends at the bathroom door, which is closed.

John Watson, knowing he's going to regret this, opens the door.

"_Sheeeeerrrloooock! You hit the plumbing AGAIN?!"_

"What? I was bored. And Mrs. Hudson had to go get groceries . . ." (Of course she'd done this saying she was just repaying a favor, and was in no way their maid.)

. . .

Some days later, John contemplates he should just take something—one of the guns he's continually locking away or the arsenic his friend loves to experiment with—and just get it over with.

Because, really? If Watson ever _did_ kill Holmes, he'd be solving quite a few problems for quite a few people.

. . .

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you, and goodbye.**


	2. Leave The Scarf ALONE

No. There is no doubt in Dr. John Watson's mind this time. An angered Sherlock Holmes is a terror he wouldn't sick on ANY human being. Moriarty included.

. . .

"John, I will ask this only once. If you answer the question incorrectly, I'm afraid you'll be forced to call more than the plumber." John shutters internally, but steels himself against what shall probably prove to be the most horrible thing he'll ever experience.

"Where, may I ask, is my scarf and coat?" John's pretty sure the dark haired man knew EXACTLY where those particular articles of clothing were, and was slowly torturing his flat mate.

"In the wash" John manages to glare fiercely enough to temporarily silence his partner. "And that's where they'll STAY until the blood comes out. Honestly Sherlock, I have half a mind to throw the blasted things out!"

"Dear friend, if you ever did that I would simply take the lowest caliber gun I own" the detective cocks the pistol John just realized he was holding "And shoot you full of more holes than a piece of Swiss cheese."

To John's horror, Sherlock starts to pull the trigger.

"Y-you wouldn't kill me over just-"

**_BANG!_**

"That coat and scarf warrant more than a _just,_ John."

**. . .**

"Alright," John sighs, wiping himself off "I surrender. You can put the water gun back now. I knew those things were important, but did you have to scare me half to death to get your point across?"

"1. This was more fun this way, and 2. since you have a serious emotion attached to this . . . incident, you aren't likely to forget my wishes. And really, the 'Swiss Cheese' part should have tipped you off, John. I do not exaggerate. And if I did, I wouldn't use such a cliche phrase."

John grumbles something like "nightmares for the rest of his life" and stalks off towards his bedroom, thoroughly defeated and too traumatized to try again.

. . .

_-Extra-_

_Some time later, Sherlock can be seen hand washing the articles that have caused so much trouble. He takes extra care with the scarf, slowly scrubbing the offending blood stains off with his thumbnail. _

_'Hn, these things are starting to get older than I thought. Both are fraying quite a bit, but mostly around the edges. Probably from so many people yanking on my collar over the years. Ha! It was worth it! But it'll take forever to get the blood out of this blasted scarf . . . Not that it was my fault, who in their right mind throws a disembodied hand at someone anyways?!'_

_Sherlock continues to mentally grumble about various inconveniences, though a smile plays on his lips. The reason, however, is for another time . . . _


	3. EAT SOMETHING

"Sherlock, eat something." John makes a point not to add the "please".

"Not hungry."

"Too bad. I remember the skeleton we had back in medical school. It not only had more meat on its bones, it was also more willing to follow doctor's orders. Now EAT, before I hook you up to an IV in your sleep. For Pete's sake, you're not even on a case!"

Sherlock gives the ex-soldier a withering look, and returns to reading an article in the paper. Something about a double murder and an unscrupulous witness, I believe. Besides, the doctor's ALREADY hooked him up to an IV in his sleep.

"Look, you don't have to be hungry to ea-forget it. I'm banging my head on a brick wall." Wordlessly cofirming this, the detective takes another sip of his tea.

. . .

Sherlock gets The Call sometime later. It's the same murder as the one in the paper, but the consulting detective visibly wilts when he's messaged the information.

"A mob murder. Those idiots can't solve a MOB. MURDER. I swear to heaven, if those _incompitent_ _nincompoops_ can'tcome up with some decent killings, I'll take a hit out myself!** BETTER YET, I'LL CALL MORIARTY!"**

The curly-haired detective storms out the room, growling about imbecils and other "i" words I don't think I should mention.

. . .

After a few minutes, and this specticle has thoroughly sunk in, John sighs. Sherlock usually isn't half this tempermental. Insulting yes, tempermental, no. Holmes always gets like that around this time, John supposes.

But really, if this keeps up, John Watson wonders how long he'll be able to stand-let alone live though-the Christmas seaon.


	4. Insubordination

-**_Inspired_** by **The Scarf** by CKerased-

As Sherlock Holmes rubs his neck for the fiftieth time in ten minutes, John swears by the Hippocratic oath he'll yank that scarf right off his partner if the man does it one more time.

. . . one neck-rub later . . .

"Sherlock . . ."

"I can tell from that tone something I've done recently has driven you to the brink. So-"

"Take that scarf off."

The detective raises an eyebrow, then raises a hand protectively over item in question. "NOW."

"Why? If it's my lymph nodes you're after I can tell you right here and now I don't get sick. And the last time I was shot it simply _grazed _my neck. You were certainly there. What the-?" Sherlock stops in mid ramble when he realizes that John had untied it a few sentences ago. He looks at the ceiling somewhat guiltily as week-old bruises come to light.

. . . a few awkward seconds later . . .

"Curiosity satisfied now?"

"No. Who'd you get mad this time? Wait, wait, never mind. Even your massive brain couldn't keep track of that many people-stop glaring at me like that-would it kill you to keep this thing home when we're on a case?"

"Most likely."

"Funny. I know that scarf's a subtle way of saying "come and choke me!" But come _on_, with those bruises it looks like you tried to hang yourself with this . . . this cashmere noose!"

"And failed, apparently."

"Sherlock, you didn't . . ."

"Of _course_ I didn't. And if I tried, do you _honestly _think I'd just _hang _myself? Of all the unoriginal ways-" "ALRIGHT! Sorry for ever worrying about 'the great Sherlock Holmes'!" John stomps off the pavement, then, to Sherlock's everlasting amusement, turns right back around.

"Forget something?"

"**_I_** live here, it isn't a work day, and if I show up at the surgery they'll think I'm either a workaholic or up to my ears in debt-which, if that were to ever happen, would be THANKS TO YOU. You can go pester Lestrade for an interesting case or just pester some unsuspecting bystander with your observations. But either way, GOOD NIGHT!"

. . .

_Some nights later, Sherlock and his cohorts are hot on the trail of a murder._ _With Holmes leading the way (and completely unarmed), they barrel through the hall way of an abandoned building._

"Pick up the pace! We can catch him! The smudge marks of his left heel clearly show . . ." John Watson rolls his eyes, tuning out the blue-eyed detective.

_'Honestly, how can someone so thin and refuses to eat for days on end out pace us all? Ugh, don't tell me I'm getting "that old" already . . .'_

John does a bit more of mental grumbling, momentarily loosing track of his friend when the detective turns a sharp corner. He finds the troublesome man easily enough, though.

"Watch it, watch it. That's a 100% cashmere scarf you've got me by, 'friend'. Which, according to your gloves, the way you murdered our victim, and your **breath, **I'd say is something worth five months of your salary, supposing you had one-" the detective's observations (which undoubtedly prove he has no preservational instincts), are cut short when the business-end of a gun is shoved in his mouth.

"O-ONE MORE STEP AND I SHOOT THIS GUY!"

John doesn't miss a beat.

"Shoot 'im if ya want. We certainly don't care. _Right guys." _Lestrade and Donovan's eyes bug out upon hearing this.

"John, are you cra_-aaaa_zy. Oooh . . . . Of COURSE-we don't care what happens to that Freak." Sally starts playing along when John smirks at her.

The criminal looks confused for a second, shrugs, and smiles. "Then I suppose ya won't mind if I do _this._"

Suddenly the man has Sherlock (gun now pressed to his head) against a wall and is slowly choking the poor detective _with his own scarf_. Of all the ways to go out, this has to be up there with "death by fish".*

Sherlock, calm, level headed, most likely insane Sherlock, is starting to panic. Now, it would probably take the end of the world for him to get even a bit nervous, but the blood's rushing to his head and ol' Holmes is getting a bit giddy.

"WHATAYA MEAN BY THAT?! Look, you-" Sherlock using the word "whataya" should be enough to prove my statement.

**_BANG!_**

John's bullet buries itself deep in their quarry's arm, causing him to let go of the detective's precious scarf. But not with out consequences . . .

Calls of "Sherlock, are you alright?!" echo through the abandoned building, nipping at the heels of the gun shot. Sherlock Holmes, back to his usual dignified, if not venomous, self, stands swiftly. He dusts himself off and proceeds to give his savior a well-aimed glare that would make most recipients cower.

"Well, what is it now?! If it's about some of the things we said, it was just to get the guy off his guard, okay?"

Sherlock sniffs dismissively, now readjusting his scarf.

"I just finished washing this, you know."

. . .

**Actually happened, thank you. The thing jumped right down some guy's throat.***


	5. Not so Petty Annoyances

John is becoming a fairly patient person. Not that he wasn't patient before, just average. But when you live with Sherlock Holmes, you learn to put up with his little . . . eccentricities.

Twitching would be first on the list. Look closely at him. The man can't sit still. If his body isn't moving, then it's his head. Or his eyes. He's constantly observing. And what's worse than _hearing _his observations, it's seeing the movement required to produce them. Once you see Sherlock twitch, you can't stop watching. This drives John up the wall.

_Sherlock finishes yet another stunning display of his genious, leaving even Sgt. Donovan speachless. The man simply smiles, inhumanly smug, and absolutely_ skips _out of the room. His partner, however, is much less impressed then the awstruck policemen (and woman)._

_"Thirty-two times exactly."_

_"Thirty-two WHAT exactly?" Sherlock blinks, wondering if his friend has finally lost that last marble._

_"That's how many times you twitched, flicked your eyes around, or shifted. Not counting when you were examining the body."_

_"I'm simply a consulting detective (however briliant), John, not a mind reader. Would you please elaborate for a poor, confused Englishman?"_

_His friend sighs in reply. Really, these twitches are really starting to get an his nerves. Of course, he would have never noticed them had Sherlock not kept pester and belittling him to start observing, but Murphy's Law is an abosolute.* _

Second would be Mr. Holmes practicing his violin. This, in itself, isn't anything too bad. After Afganistan, John can just tune out the numerous scales and endless songs the man practices daily. It's just when Sherlock's mad, or worse, _depressed_ that the doctor feels his sanity slipping.

_After the third chorus of Tears in Heaven, second of Alone Wolf, and Sixteeth of Fairy Tail's Kizuna Theme (alright, really, how the heck does Sherlock know that song?), John cracks. _

_"Sherlock Holmes, I will get down on my hands and knees and BEG you to stop. I'll let you pt as many severed body parts in the frige as you want, no questions asked. YOU CAN EVEN SHOOT THE WALLS IF THAT MAKES YOU HAPPY, JUST **STOP PLAYING THAT MUSIC!"**_

_Sherlock gives his flat mate something between a bemused and mournful look, though it looks suspiciously exaggerated._

_"Really John, what do you expect when I'm bored?" _

_. . . _

_"I expect you to either blow the house to smithereens with one of your 'experiments' or shoot it to bits with **my best gun."**_

_"So it can be safely said that you would prefer more . . . explosive treatments for my boredom?"_

_So THAT'S what this little show was about. (John had thoroughly chewed his friend out for placing yet ANOTHER hole in a strategic part of the house. Their land lady's floor, to be precise. With the bullet flying approximately six inches from her nose.) _

_"Alright, Sherlock, you win. As usual."_

Ah! Another thing to add to the list: His flat mate's almost neurotic sense to win. At. Everything. Then proceed to brag about it for the next quarter century.

_"Do hurry up, John, chess games aren't supposed to last five hours . . . Well, unprofessional ones, anyhow." _

_"Oh, stop nagging and go back to your magazine. Ha, there! How do you like that?!" _

_"Not very much at all."_

_"Unbelievable. Is this the great Sherlock Holmes admitting defeat to one with only average brain capacity?"_

_"No, this is the great Sherlock Holmes checkmating his over confident (not to mention exceedingly slow) flat mate."_

_And, being a cold-hearted insert-explitive-here, John's (now former) friend did just that. After staring at the board for a few minutes, utterly mystified, the doctor speaks._

_"You're cruel, you know that?"_

_Sherlock shrugs, grinning "Quite. But thanks for the compliment." _

**What CAN go wrong, WILL go wrong. ***


	6. Like a Piece of Swiss Cheese

"Sherlock, there's something that's been on my mind for a while now. I wouldn't usually ask anyone this, but it'll drive me insane if I don't get it out."

"What? I can tell you right now-" Homes is silenced by a "look" and battens down his mental hatches for a venomous tirade.

"How, on God's green Earth, did ONE MAN, in a mere **_35 _****_years,*_** accumulate so many enimies without joining the mob?! One of which is the mob, I'd like to add!"

"And how did a doctor, who must by now how dirty an apparatus the mouth is, forget to brush his teeth this morning?"

"BECAUSE MY #*^%$ BEST FRIEND WAS BUSY TAKING POTSHOTS!" John collapses back into his chair, rubbing his temples. It's on very rare occasions that the doctor yells at Sherlock like this, but he's at his wits end. Can't the man be more _careful?_ The blasted idiot got shot that morning. About twenty times, actually.

_"Will you slow down, Sherlock?!_ _Some of us used to suffer from a debilitating limp!" _

_"The operative words being 'used to'! Pick up the pace before I get the irresistible urge to call you-" "Finish that sentence, Sherlock, and I will personally throw out your ENTIRE specimen collection." "Even though we both know that would signify a declaration of war?" "So would calling me 'shorty.'" _

_With their personal breaking points confirmed, the two speed off towards their current enemy . . . who undoubtedly has some odd connection to Moriarty in one way or another._

_They turn a corner-Mr. Holmes in the lead-and stop. Mostly because Sherlock has unceremoniously fallen onto John._

_The doctor immediately gets up to go after the criminals, but hangs back when he notices the consulting detective isn't five feet ahead of him yet. _

_"Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow. Er, John? Down here . . .? Ah, thank you." _

_"For what?"_

_"Not leaving me behind."_

_The doctor just stares at his partner. Exactly how much the man gone through in his life anyways?_

_"Don't look at me like I'm some lost child. Excuse me for not having a particular taste for being left in the lurch while wounded. You of all people should know how bad an infection can be. I, personally, would rather not go through life without a foot . . ." This, of course, makes john give a sheepish grin, as his partner prattles on. Leave it to Sherlock to lighten_ John's_ mood (unintentionally) after being used for target practice. _

As you can see, it takes a few hours for the full gravity of the situation to hit John. And it does so right between the eyes.

"Sherlock, I'm the one who gets shot around here, okay? You just strangled. I'm inhumanly comfortable with this after being in a war zone. You? You I'm not so sure about. Considering you haven't stopped wearing that noos-er-SCARF of yours, I'd say you're pretty used to being choked."

"We're both shot at John."

"Alright, but I'm the prime target."

"So you're saying you'd be more comfortable laying here in my place?"

"No . . . it's just . . . argh . . . Will you please watch where you're going and WAIT for the rest of us? You go through more than half our most dangerous cases completely unarmed and the only time I saw you shoot something was the flat wall."

Sherlock gives his friend a very disappointed expression, even "tut, tutting" unhapily.

"Oh, what is now?"

"Even after living there for so long, you've still failed to notice I shot that face _exactly_ in the eyes? And shot its mouth _dead centre?_ Really, John. I thought you'd have learned a thing or two from me by now."

"I'm not exactly in the position to at the moment, but what is it?"

"Don't say dead. Especially since that last bullet nearly took out a lung."

**. . .**

**O-kay, ended up a bit more serious than usual this time. Don't worry, though. I hope to have you guys in stitches with the next chapter. **


	7. Trouble Magnet

"Sherlock, please, stop hobbling around the house like that. You're bringing up bad memories and all that thumping is making it impossible for me to read."

The consulting detective gives his friend a a fake smile "Thank you, John, for your sympathy for my twisted ankle. Thank you for understanding that it has kept me from finishing this case in a decent amount of time because I can't see the bodies for myself and _someone, _who shall be left nameless, isn't giving me all the clues . . ."

Dr. Watson sinks deeper into his armchair as his friend continues to rant. That ankle certainly hasn't kept him from pacing for the past three hours, but Sherlock will be Sherlock.

Unfortunately.

. . .

A familiar ring-tone greats the good doctor's ears, making him settle even farther into his chair. (And there isn't much left to settle into.)

"Anderson . . ." Sherlock spits out the name with more ferocity than he would even for Mycroft. And he's had 35 to work up hatred for his brother.

John, being a bit of a masochist, peeks over his paper. As expected, the curly-haired man's face tells it all: Anderson sent another lousy, pixelated, ridiculous excuse for picture he wouldn't send to his own mother-in-law (provided he had one.)

"That's it. **John.**" The doctor jumps at his own name, feeling like he had in the Baskerville lab.

"Yes . . .?"

"You kept that cane, didn't you?"

You bet he did. The usually (emphasis on the _usually_) mild doctor Watson had all but mountd the thing on his wall. It was more of a trophy then anything he could have gotten from a crime scene or even the war.

"Yes, but-"

"Good! We'll be off and FINALLY get this case wrapped up!" The lanky detective is more excited than he's been in weeks, so John can't really refuse him. It's just a twisted ankle, anyways . . .

. . .

"Now, Lestrade, s-stay calm. This . . . Ah, _technically_ wasn't Sherlock's fault . . ."

"Oh, but _I am_ calm, doctor. Can't you see how calm I am? Even in the face of _having half my squad wiped out? _And having the _other half _reschedule their vacation?" Greg's voice is sickly sweet, and just an octave below a scream.

"Shhh! This is a hospital! You know, where all the sick people hang out? They'd like to get some rest, if you don't mind!" A particularly crabby nurse growls to the P. I., eventually going about her business.

"Look, think of it this way. Sherlock broke his leg, fractured five ribs, and broke his jaw in that . . . Incident. Do you honestly think he'll be up for any more investigations for a while?"

The two give the pale detective a once-over.

"Yes."


	8. Elementary Deductions

**Author's note: This chapter is getting a T rating for violence, or the end result thereof. I plan on keeping everything else strictly K+, tops.**

. . . A mere hour before this latest . . . episode . . .

John's eye inadvertantly twitches.

This would normally mean nothing to your normal human, and, provided they witnessed it, would suspect it was brought on by Sherlock.

Well Sherlock certainly noticed it and knows for a fact it had nothing to do with him.

He hasn't been able to bring himself to say a word for the past five minutes.

Ah, a new word record . . .

"It's the body, isn't it, doctor?" John's only reply is a nod. Sherlock can't particularly blame him. He's seen people dismembered, disemboweled, dis just about everything. But not all at once. And, it had been sitting out in this rainy weather for a day and a half . . .

But what really sickened the detective was that it took HIM a good three minutes to figure out it once belonged to a human.

"We're obviously dealing with a 'man' who has anger issues. Maybe off meds. He's not a butcher as he . . . didn't slice the victim."

Sherlock falters for a fraction of a second, feeling like his scarf is tightening around his neck. He gains his composure, though, just as quickly.

"As you can hopefully see, except Anderson over there, who I've lost all hope for, the heart is neatly cut out. Everything is neatly cut, actually, which suggests use of a scalpel. Which indicates what, John?"

"Someone in the medical profession. I know Sher-"

"Correct! Finally. Now, Lestrade, what did you find the victim in when you arrived?"

"What the $#/! Do you mean by _that_? I found she was dead! What was I supposed to find her-?"

Sherlock slaps his head and inturrupts once again. "You're getting to be worse than Anderson now. What I'm trying to ask is if she _had any clothes on_."

"Of course not, but-"

"AHA!" The consulting detective is in full form now.

"And you didn't find even find a scrap of clothing in the entire beach, did you? No! For a display like this the 'murderer' would have had to get rid of her things some how! He wouldn't have ripped or torn them, as anyone that precise would not be likely to resort to blatant violence."

"Those incisions are a little hard to believe," Anderson foolishly pipes up. "You can't just . . . cut a struggling person open and not make a mistake or two along the way. And I don't see any equipment stashed around here, so what about all the blood?"

"You don't see much of anything as it is. There is such a thing as poison, you know- Oh, forget it. Lestrade, will you just put a muzzle on that man? If not for your sake, then for your men's. The last thing they need is a bad influence."

"Enough, Sherlock, get back to solving the case."

"Humph, no one appreciates the voice of reason . . . Alright, alright. I assume there was no missing persons reports?"

Lestrade and Anderson look at each other somewhat dumbly. Holmes takes this as a no, and continues.

"Gentlemen, Miss Jane Doe was already dead when our 'murderer' picked her up. You neither dress a corpse nor look for one. And since there have been so many dissepearences in this same manor, though it's been hard to tell, considering the 'pictures' Mr. Halsman keeps sending me, this corpse is one of many."

"So this sicko's a mortician? That's the only place he'd get a decent supply. Why not just become a professor? He could dig into as many bodies as he wanted. legally. Even get paid-"

"Yes, you idiot. A day late a dollar short, as usual. How's Molly doing by the way? Why don't you marry her and get over with? Funny thing about lunatics, THEY DON'T HAVE A HABIT OF THINKING STRAIGHT. It's God's way of making my job all the easier, so I don't have to spend so much time breathing the same air as you."

"That's enough, kids. Any ideas where the perp's hiding, Sherlock."

". . . Beautiful weather today, isn't it? The way the mid morning fog rolls across the sand is simply . . . " the dark-haired man rambles on, pointedly limping down the beach.

"I should go make sure that nut doesn't get himself into trouble . . ." John trots off awkwardly, somewhat ashamed he needs to speed up to keep pace with his friend. Who left his cane on the beach.

. . .

John eventually catches up with his Sherlock, though, still wondering what in the world is going on.

"Are you . . . alright . . .?" The doctor shuts up as soon as he sees the detective furiously texting.

**Get over here now. Big trouble. -SH**

**Since when do you command me? -MH**

**When my commands are what keep you in power. -SH**

**HA! That's a good one. -MH**

**Fine, I'll be around in ten minutes. -MH**

**Why don't you ask Lestrade to clean up the mess? -MH**

**Because this involves something more up your alley. -SH**

**I knew you were going to say that. -MH**

**Nice to have you admit it. -MH**

**Oh, shut up and get over here. -SH**

**There'll be two bodies on the beach. Your job will be to get Greg to let you have the one with his throat cut open. -SH**

John stops in mid-stride, shocked. How does Sherlock know the murderer, okay, potential murderer, confirmed psycho, is there? Let alone dead? And if the man knew everything why'd he kill his ankle on the walk along the surf? Why not show-off to Lestrade and make Anderson look all the more stupid?

**And tell Moriarty I didn't find his joke the least bit funny. -SH**

**With pleasure. I'm sure he'll be crushed. -MH**

**Maybe then we won't have to deal with him anymore. -MH**

**Wouldn't bet on it. -SH**

Ah . . . Uh, oh.

. . .

To Be Continued.


End file.
